


Frowns Abundant

by AnonymousSpacePrince



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Conversations, Drunkenness, Feelings, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-14 07:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14131554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSpacePrince/pseuds/AnonymousSpacePrince
Summary: Tony pokes Steve's shoulder sharply, trying to break his dumb too-cool-to-show-real-emotion act, but Steve just stills Tony's hand with a gentle grasp around his wrist and says, "I've never seen you this messed up. How can I help?"Trauma, the lack thereof, and the not-so-bad aftermath of poor drunken decisions.





	Frowns Abundant

**Author's Note:**

> my welcome has been very warm and encouraging, so here, have another. this fic is slightly more angsty than the last, but i swear it's not nearly as bad as it sounds.
> 
> (this has been sitting in my drafts for two weeks. i keep re-reading it and finding new things to tweak, but that could go on forever, so i'm saying enough is enough, here you go.)

    Trauma wasn't the right word, no matter what three therapists and multiple drunkenly-dialed friends have said over the years.

    Tony wasn't _traumatised_ , he was just... moderately scarred on the inside by a few different things from his past, and they sometimes, occasionally, came to light when he least expected it and encouraged him to drink a bottle (or two) of liquor. Whatever.

    Old news.

    Frankly, the notion that he was traumatised was offensive. People are allowed to feel things, for Christ's sake. People are allowed to recall uncomfortable details from particular events and have a hard time getting their lungs to work when they remember them; it doesn't mean they have _t_ _rauma_. Jeez.

    And, on the subject, sampling a liquor cabinet in an attempt to black out the thoughts he can't stop himself from thinking is not an unhealthy coping mechanism. It can't be unhealthy if it works, right?

    That was Tony's reasoning every time, and this was no exception. He'd taken shot after shot... after shot after shot, until the whole world tilted slightly to the left, he could no longer tell whether his lungs were working at all, let alone if they felt too constricted, and he was too focused on the fact that he was decidedly not traumatised to think about the trauma itself. The _not_ -trauma. Fuck.

    It was a spiral. Not a downward spiral, or an upward spiral, but an inward spiral. Tony's thoughts just kept circling each other, around and around, getting narrower and tighter but ultimately going nowhere fast.

    Which surely explained how he ended up flopped on a couch (which couch was it, anyway?) beside Steve, who looked caught somewhere between bewildered, concerned, and horrified (which, come on, Cap, you've never seen a man too drunk to remember which room he's in?), ranting about how he wasn't traumatised and his therapists had all been quacks and he'd rather be psychoanalyzed by a literal fucking duck than to see another shrink ever again.

    Tony catches back up with the words spilling out of his mouth right around, "...except there would be feathers fucking everywhere," and he stops, squints at Steve's almost-blurry face, and asks, "what was I talking about?"

    "Uh," Steve says. "Tony, you're really drunk."

    "Yes," Tony agrees.

    Steve frowns. "You should drink some water," he says.

    "I'd like to counter that I should drink some more bourbon," Tony says.

    "You absolutely should not," Steve says, in his what-I-say-goes voice, his frown deepening.

    Tony scoffs. "You're not my mother, you can't tell me what to do."

    "I'm not trying to be your mother, Tony, I'm trying to be your friend," Steve says, too calm. Tony pokes Steve's shoulder sharply, trying to break his dumb too-cool-to-show-real-emotion act, but Steve just stills Tony's hand with a gentle grasp around his wrist and says, "I've never seen you this messed up. How can I help?"

    "Why do you wanna help?" Tony tries to ask, but it sounds more like a messy run of syllabic vowels, so he repeats the question, putting more effort into each word.

    "Because I hate seeing you like this," Steve says.

    "Why?" Tony asks. What's so wrong with being drunk?

    "Because we're friends," Steve says.

    Tony thinks he already said that, but he can't remember when. Have they been going in a circle? He also can't remember if he asked the thing about being drunk out loud, or just thought it. He asks again, just in case. "What's wrong with being drunk?"

    Steve's frown returns, equal parts sadness and disapproval. Hell of a combination, considering it's not his responsibility to feel sad or disapproving about anything Tony does when he's on his own time.

    "You're not just drunk, Tony," Steve says, too patiently, "you're totally obliterated."

    "That's a good word," Tony says, then he remembers the conversation they're having. "Why do you care if I'm drunk?"

    "Because I care about you," Steve says.

    Tony halts at that and raises his eyebrows. He can't recall the last time someone cared about him. It's nice to feel cared about.

    Tony grabs the sides of Steve's face, missing _smooth_ , but at least managing not to poke any eyes or slap him, and kisses him.

    Steve's lips are warm and cushiony, but he pulls away immediately, giving Tony no chance to feel them properly, and Tony pouts. Steve holds him out at an arm's length, his face a mask of surprise. "What on Earth was that?" Steve asks.

    "Um," Tony says. "As far as I can tell, I tried to kiss you, and you very rudely didn't let me."

    Steve frowns again (still, more, whatever).

    "Why didn't you let me?" Tony asks, sounding more petulant than he intends.

    "Because you're drunk, Tony, Jesus," Steve says. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

    "Yes," Tony says, though he's not quite sure what he was doing before answering that question.

    "Okay, I'm putting you to bed," Steve says, all leader-y like when he's being Captain America. He stands up, pulling Tony to his feet, gently but surely, holding him up easily when Tony stumbles.

    Tony decides that bed is a nice place to be, so he lets Steve lead him to a bed, and then he flops down and buries his face in a pillow. "Don't leave," he tells Steve, allowing himself to sink down into the covers.

    "I'm not going anywhere," Steve says.

    Tony feels the mattress adjust as Steve sits down on the edge of the bed, and Tony fumbles around blindly, unable to open his tired eyes, until he finds Steve's hand. He holds onto it until he starts to feel sleep pulling on his consciousness.

  
    Tony wakes to a truly incredible pounding in his head, a deeply uncomfortable twisting in his gut, and a generally unpleasant, overheated feeling all over. He unburies himself from the bedclothes with fumbling hands, acting mostly on instinct, and, after taking two seconds to let his half-asleep brain make the connection that he's in Steve's room, bee-lines for the bathroom.

    He makes it just in time to empty the contents of his stomach– almost entirely burning alcohol– into the pristine white toilet bowl. His stomach heaves once, then again, worse, and then one more time before he can catch his breath.

    Tony sits heavily on the floor, too afraid to move far from the commode, and blinks away the feeling of hot tears prickling at his eyes from the acidic burn in his throat. He focuses on taking slow, steady breaths, willing himself to gradually stop shaking and his heart rate to slow down.

    Tony throws up twice more before his stomach finally feels satisfactorily detoxified, then he spends another minute on the floor afterwards, trying to get his bearings, before standing up on unsteady legs. He flushes the toilet– twice, for good measure– and then turns on the sink to cold and rinses his mouth repeatedly. He feels a little less disgusting with each swish of crisp water.

    A light knock sounds from the other side of the door, and Tony startles, then relaxes.

    "You okay?" Steve asks through the door.

    "Peachy," Tony says, his voice rough and a little weak.

    "There's a clean toothbrush in the medicine cabinet," Steve says.

    Tony opens the cabinet, carefully avoiding his own reflection, and, indeed, there's a new, blue toothbrush, still in its package and everything. "Thanks," Tony says, honestly grateful.

    "No problem," Steve says, slightly muffled by the door between them. "When you're done, I'll be in the living room with ginger ale and Motrin."

    "You're a lifesaver, Cap," Tony says. He thinks he hears a soft huff, the ghost of a laugh, but Steve says nothing more, and Tony hears him walk away from the door.

    Tony brushes his teeth thoroughly, rinses with mouthwash afterwards for good measure, and then splashes water on his face and runs his wet hands through his hair.

    Tony finally looks in the mirror, and, hey, he doesn't look as bad as he expected. He's definitely rocking hangover eyes, but the dark circles aren't much worse than when he stays up all night working, so he considers it a small victory. He finds eyedrops in the medicine cabinet, and they do a number on the redness, and then he looks almost normal, if a little rumpled.

    Tony runs his hands through his hair to smooth out the wetness and ruffles it to avoid the awkward matted down look, then he finally leaves the bathroom.

    As promised, Steve is sitting on the couch in his living room, watching HGTV (which Tony makes a mental note to tease him about later, when he's not super grateful for Steve looking after him), and there's a glass of ginger ale and a bottle of Motrin sitting on the coffee table.

    Steve looks up as Tony sits down on the couch beside him. "How are you feeling?"

    "Kind of like I got punched by the Hulk," Tony says. "But honestly not as bad as I probably should. I can't even remember how much I drank last night."

    "A lot," Steve supplies helpfully. "You were drunker than I've ever seen you."

    Tony raises his eyebrows as he uncaps the Motrin. "Drunker than New Year's?"

    "Last night made New Year's seem like a slightly tipsy walk in the park."

    Tony whistles lowly. "Yikes." He sips some ginger ale and takes two pills, then settles back into the plush corner of the couch. "Thanks for looking out for me last night," Tony says. "I probably would've passed out on the floor somewhere otherwise, which is just terrible for my back."

    "Yeah, you seemed pretty messed up, even for being drunk," Steve says. "I figured you needed to sleep it off."

    Tony hums in agreement and takes another sip of ginger ale. "What are we watching?"

    "Property Brothers," Steve tells him. "It's amazing what they can do to these shabby houses."

    Tony smiles to himself and puts his attention on the television. He's prepared to filter through mocking comments to find the balance between making Steve laugh and annoying him, but the show is actually good. Steve was right, it _is_ amazing what they do to shabby houses.

    Halfway through the reveal of a three-bedroom ranch house, Steve pauses the TV. Tony's ready to protest, but Steve looks at him seriously, and Tony stays quiet. He gets the sinking feeling he did something stupid while he was drunk, and it must show on his face, because Steve's expression falters.

    Tony isn't sure he wants to know. "What?"

    Steve hesitates, then he says, "nothing, never mind." He turns the show back on.

    They watch in silence for a little while, but Tony can practically feel the thoughts radiating off of Steve, and his sense of dread grows until he _has_  to know. As the show moves into the opening of a new episode, Tony says, "I can hear you thinking. Out with it."

    "Why did you kiss me?" Steve blurts out, his voice even but almost wary.

    Tony feels his face heat up, the sudden increase of his pulse making the low-level pounding in his head more obvious. "Why did I what now?" He scrambles for a way that that could be better than it sounds, and remembers that Clint, Rhodey, and Bruce have all told him before that he makes a habit of kissing their cheeks when he's drunk. Relieved, Tony says, "oh, the cheek kissing thing? Yeah, I've been told I do that a lot."

    Steve frowns. "You didn't kiss my cheek, Tony," he says. "You actually tried to kiss me."

    "Tried to?" Tony asks tentatively. He needs a clear understanding of exactly how badly he fucked up.

    "Well, you kissed me and I pushed you away because you were drunk," Steve says. "Way too drunk to know what you were doing."

    Tony's brain clings to the operative 'because you were drunk' for a second, digging into the possible meanings to that, but he moves on quickly and says, "shit, I'm sorry."

    "No, it's okay, we all do... unexpected stuff when we're drunk," Steve says. "Or, I mean, I can't get drunk anymore, but I did my fair share of stupid stuff before the serum." He smiles wryly, and Tony can't help a laugh. "I just, uh... Why did you do it?"

    Tony slowly sighs out a breath. "That's a loaded question if I've ever heard one."

    Steve frowns. "No, it's not. You don't have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable. I'm just curious whether it was a spur-of-the-moment nonsensical decision or..." Steve takes a breath like he might be psyching himself up. "Or more along the lines of a drunken action reflecting sober feelings."

    And, well, that takes a long moment for Tony to sort through. Try as he might, he can't figure out what Steve's thinking. Tony seriously considers pleading the fifth, because he knows Steve would respect that and let it go, but in the end, he figures he already dug his grave when he evidently drunkenly made a move on Steve, so he might as well offer up a shovel.

    "Let's call it fifty-fifty," he says, and then takes in a steadying breath. "Look, I was in a weird place last night, and I definitely got drunker than I should've, and I tend to turn into a total hot mess when I do that, which you surely know." Steve nods, and Tony inhales and continues. "I assume you being a good friend and not leaving me to my lonesome somehow translated in Drunk Me's brain to thinking kissing you would be a good idea, for some reason. Which it obviously wasn't, Sober Me is well aware, but, as I said, Drunk Me is an idiot."

    Tony cuts off his rambling and runs a hand through his hair, glancing unseeingly at the TV just to get a break from eye contact for a second. Steve must sense Tony has more to say, because he stays politely silent.

    "Also, if I'm being really honest here," Tony finally says, pushing past a nervous little jolt in his chest that makes him want to shut up, "I've wanted to kiss you sober for a little while now, and since Drunk Me doesn't take into consideration such outlandish concepts as _reality_ and _common sense_  and _the million reasons why kissing your abundantly heterosexual friend-slash-teammate is a very bad idea_ , I guess I–" Tony stops, because Steve's expression has transformed into something surprised and amused. "What?"

    "'Abundantly heterosexual'?" Steve asks with a hint of a laugh.

    "Well, you are," Tony says defensively.

    "Huh," Steve says, "that's news to me."

    Tony's thought process grinds to a stuttering halt, and he raises his eyebrows, then knits them together. "What are you saying, Rogers?"

    "I'm not straight, Tony," Steve says, clearly amused. "I'm attracted to men and women."

    Tony takes a long moment to accept this information as the truth. "Huh. Captain America is bi, who would've thunk it?" Tony says. "I can see the conservative heads exploding now."

    Steve snorts a laugh.

    Tony spends a long moment internally debating voicing the question in his mind. Ultimately, he decides he might as well, since he probably won't get another chance to ask so transparently. "So, hypothetically speaking, if I hadn't been drunk when I kissed you, would you still have pushed me away?"

    "Hypothetically speaking," Steve says, and pauses for longer than Tony appreciates, "no, I don't think I would have."

    Tony tries not to feel like a preteen whose crush just checked the 'yes' box, but he does nonetheless. "Oh. Okay. Then– still speaking hypothetically, of course–"

    "Of course," Steve concurs, the corner of his mouth twitching with poorly-contained amusement.

    "–If I tried to kiss you again sometime, when I wasn't drunk or hungover, how might that go over?"

    Steve breaks out into an easy smile. "Hypothetically speaking, I think that would be okay."

    It takes real effort to not go ahead and kiss him right then, but Tony can think of enough good reasons not to that he convinces himself to wait. "Good to know," he says instead. "I'll definitely be putting that hypothesis to the test sometime."

**Author's Note:**

> property brothers rocks.
> 
> feel free to point out any mistakes, offer any compliments, or do anything else you can think of in a comment.


End file.
